


Spiritu Sancto et Igni

by Puzzle_with_Infinite_Pieces



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28351932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puzzle_with_Infinite_Pieces/pseuds/Puzzle_with_Infinite_Pieces
Summary: 5 times Cinna reflects on Katniss and one time he reflects on himself.(Or, the closest glimpse into my writing style possible before I publish a full novel.)
Relationships: Cinna & Katniss Everdeen, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. 1. The Reaping

1.

I’m never really excited to watch Reapings anymore. But, seeing as I’ve finally been approved to be a stylist, I find the nervous stirring in my stomach understandable. The Reapings from each district are fairly standard as I watch them count up from One to Twelve. 

The Tributes from District One are the usual beautiful, strong, and doll-like girl, and a strong, cocky, and muscular boy. The Tributes from District Two are also strong and well suited for the games. Then, there are the young Tributes from District Three who both look scared. The Tributes from District Four are strong, but in all other ways unremarkable. District Five’s female tribute has an interesting air about her, and she seems wily. 

I watch District Six’s reaping, and I’m starting to feel the sadness creep over me. The children are so small and so painfully young. I feel the same as the children from Seven are reaped, and the ache becomes physically painful as the Reapings continue through Eight, Nine, and Ten. 

By the time the girl from District 11 has been reaped, I can hardly watch. The lithe child from the agricultural district flutters to the stage on her slim legs. I might request her just to see if styling her could make a dent in saving her life. 

However, nothing could have prepared me for the District 12 reaping. The mentor of the district, Haymitch Abernathy, stumbles to the stage. 

Haymitch is famous amongst the stylists here. He’s horrible to work with. He drinks incessantly. Yet, none of the former victors seem to blame him much. Many of the victors are on good terms with him. 

My thoughts are pulled back to the screen when I hear Effie announce that she’s going to pull the name of the female tribute. There are not nearly as many girls there as there are slips. I know this indicates the sheer number of tessera from this district. 

The name is pulled and called, and another tiny waif of a child steps forward towards the stage. The tiny child is nearly half way to the stage when a commotion arises. 

Suddenly, a loud voice calls the girl’s name. A larger girl with a beautifully crafted braid runs forward. She pushes the girl behind her, and she volunteers to take the small child’s place. 

When the older girl mounts the stage, she only half says her name. However, this girl is clearly the sister of the younger child. “Everdeen” is the last name shared between the two girls. 

I am in awe of this child. This girl dared to step forward onto the platform. I notice even, as her sister screams. The girl keeps her voice steady, and she keeps her shoulders firm. Effie asks for applause, but none is given. The people of her district salute her in silence. 

My heart clenches for this girl. 

Next, their boy is called. He walks in silence, and something crosses both of their faces. A sad and somber look from the boy. An alarmed look that fades into indifference from the girl. 

The two shake hands and leave the stage.

I sit in silence looking around the room. Other stylists are unmoved, and they simply munch away on the delicacies that surround them. 

I cannot shake the image of the girl who ran through the crowd to save her sister. I see the blazing fire in her eyes, and I am reminded of a story my great grandmother used to tell. 

Next to me, my friend, Portia, puts a hand on my arm. “Take her. I will take the boy.”


	2. 2. The First Games




I sit with my girl as she takes small sips of water, and my heart is broken. She is even more stunning and fiery in person than she was through the screen at the reaping. 

Katniss Everdeen is a special girl full of true spirit. 

The more time I spend with her, the more she shines and sparks like a crackling fire. I knew I chose right when I chose her. 

I can see from the tenseness in her body that she is nervous. When I ask if she wants to talk, I already know that she will refuse. But, I ask her anyway. 

She does not shy away from holding my hand. 

My great grandmother liked to hold hands and “pray” with me when my mother wasn’t looking. I don’t know what praying is, but I think that’s what I do for my Girl on Fire as I hold her hand in both of mine. 

I wish and plead for her protection in the arena. I hope that she comes out victorious so that she can once more be clothed in fiery fabrics that dazzle the audience of the Capitol. 

At this time, I just wish for her safety. When I first met her, I had hopes that she would become a sign of rebellion to all the Districts. Now, though, she is just a frightened child, and I am the only barrier between her and the arena.

I am the only friendly face she has. 

So, I cradle her hands, and I “pray.” I bow my head and close my eyes as my great grandmother used to. I hesitate to press my forehead to my girl’s, but I squeeze her hands tighter. 

No one ever taught me who to pray to, and so, I send my quiet prayer to whomever will listen. 

We receive the notification that the Games are beginning, and I walk her to the platform. 

I kiss her forehead before she leaves as my great grandmother often did when she finished praying over me. She used to say that it “sealed the graces.” 

So, I seal the spirit, the grace, in my girl as she ascends into the arena. 


	3. 3. The Fire




“Cinna!” Haymitch yells in my general direction. “Get your ass back here!”

I had turned away for a moment to get a glass of water. Seeing Katniss in the dehydrated state she was in had left me parched. 

I turn back to find the entire screen engulfed in flames. Right now, the Careers and Peeta are on the move away from the fires. Portia places her hand on my shoulder, and she squeezes it tight. The small group of allies are moving away from the fire well enough. 

Soon enough, the cameras pan over to our Katniss. She sprints away from the flames as she follows a group of animals. She pauses for a moment, and I watch her vomit. My heart clenches at her plight. She drinks slowly, and then she moves again. 

However, the flames finally do catch her. Her coat catches fire and she takes it off and smothers the flames. 

I breathe a sigh of relief thinking it is all over, and it seems she does, too. 

But, something happens, a message, that I’m sure is intended for me as much as her. A final fireball flies through the air towards her. She’s not quite fast enough.

Her pant leg catches fire, and, though she manages to stop it, it burns her leg and hands badly. 

My heart sinks, and I sink with it. 

Haymitch breathes heavily before turning over a chair in his frustration. I know he doesn’t have enough money to cover what Katniss needs. I can feel his anguish as he slams both his palms into a wall. 

“You’ll get it.” I tell him. “You’ve got more than half of it now.” 

“Just barely,” he snorts. 

I hum lightly under my breath. 

Effie sprints through the door breathless. “I should have been watching with you from the beginning.” 

Effie gives me a sympathetic glance as the screen still smolders. 

The silence that falls on the room as Katniss places her wounds in the cool pool of water is palpable. Yet, we still do not speak. 

Portia nuzzles into my shoulder, and her soft voice in my ear breaks the silence. “She’ll be fine. We’ll make it work.” 

Haymitch finally rises from the floor, and he slams the door open and leaves. 

I don’t care what the other stylists have said about Haymitch Abernathy. They are wrong. He’s no better or worse than any other man. 

He is simply broken. 


	4. 4. After the First Games




I take my girl’s hand as she sleeps. Her eyes are closed lightly, and she breathes deeply. The scars on her skin fade away as they pump her full of healing medicines. 

I hesitate to do anything except hold her hand. For, that is the only permission I was ever granted from her. 

Though, I know, when they first brought her in, Haymitch sat with her for as long as he was allowed and stroked back her hair. He apologized to her. He begged her to take back her actions in the arena. I told him what Plutarch and I had planned for her, now that she had sealed her fate. 

I shudder as I remember his anger and anguish at our suggestions. Though, eventually, he conceded to us, and he agreed it was the right thing to do. 

Katniss’ hand twitches slightly, and it forces me back into the reality of this moment. I’m only allowed a brief time with her. 

So, as I grasp her lithe hand in mine, I whisper into existence more hopes for her. 

I long for her to find love, stability, and peace. I want her to find a purpose in the rebellion. I know her actions have already lit the spark, and I need her to be strong enough to unite the Districts. I plead that she and Peeta remain united as they are the only ones in the world who can understand one another now. No one else in all the world will understand what she has felt and seen the way he does. She cannot understand that yet, but I grasp her hand tightly willing her to choose the stability Peeta’s love can provide. 

Her life will become so much more uncertain now, and I know, together, the two of them can face anything. 

The boy with the bread and the Girl on Fire can and must change the world. They will bring about the new beginning. 

The door opens, and I kiss Katniss’ hand before rising and leaving her to the red haired Avox. 


	5. 5. The Wedding Dress and the Interview




I remind her to twirl in it before I leave. 

While it is not the dress we would have chosen, she shines like a beacon in it. 

It has taken me until this moment to realize that I love this girl. 

I am thankful that I have neither a wife nor children because I have given my life to the service of the rebellion and the creation of its figurehead. 

Katniss Everdeen is our Mockingjay. 

Yet, my heart clenches at this thought. She appears so fresh faced and so very young as she and Peeta sit next to each other dressed in their wedding clothes. 

Not for the first time, I think about my desire for Katniss, and how much I long for her to live an undisturbed life with the boy next to her. 

She may not see it, but it becomes more clear to me how much she loves Peeta each day. More than anything, I wish that she could live a life filled with peace. I long for her to return to her Meadows in her District and live in the Victor’s Village with her family. I desire for her to have children of her own to raise. 

But, these things must wait for now. Her fate spans a long and winding road that many before her have chosen. 

I wonder, for a moment, as I listen to her speak, if she would choose to become the Mockingjay herself. As she begins to twirl, I question whether or not it was fair to choose her fate for her. 

But, I can tell when she looks up at me, covered in Mocking jay feathers, that she doesn’t mind. That my sins are absolved, if there were any to begin with. 

Her eyes rest on me filled with a sadness I cannot fathom or name. Even if she doesn’t believe it, or understand it, she knows and has accepted the burden that she carries on her shoulders. 

As she sits and listens to Peeta, her face flickers through emotions. I see the moment where she accepts the unfathomable weight that life has placed on her. 

Her childlike features harden into the face of a woman in an instant. The glow of the stage lights engulf her face like a halo, and her eyes rise to me. In it, I see the flames of the spirit. 

It takes a moment for me to smile at her because my heart is moved with pity. I cannot let her see my tears. 

For, I know the Capitol well enough to know that this will be our last meeting. 


	6. +1 Cinna's Death

+1.

I remember my fingers tracing a golden chain attached to a little golden “t” shape when I was just seven years old. My mother asked me to go through some of my great grandmother’s old things so we could decide what ought to be kept and what would be thrown away. My mother wanted most of it gone. She and my Avia Maria were not on good terms, in large part thanks to my grandmother, Avia Caritas. 

Avia Maria’s smile lit up rooms, and she told stories while waving her small hands in all directions. She painted pictures with her words. I wanted something of hers for myself to inspire my designs and drawings. For, her stories were filled with heroes and villains, and a fiery spirit that inspired all of them. 

Her favorite story to tell was one of tongues of fire falling upon the heads of frightened men in an attic. The other was about a flaming bird that descended from the sky to inspire bravery and acts of valor. 

Even then, I knew I wanted to be a stylist for one of the tributes from the Districts, and I longed to use these ideas of the flames of the Spirit that Avia Maria explained in such awe. 

At that time, I found it odd that Avia Maria had such a disdain for the Games. 

She wept over them as Mother, Avia Caritas, and Avia Vita drank and ate themselves sick with the joy of the Games. Father, Avus Cicero, and Avus Marianus would shout and wrestle each other in drunken attempts at reenactments. I sat in Avia Maria’s lap, and I shamefully hid my face in her chest at times. 

Even then, the innocent deaths left lasting marks on me. I never understood Avia Maria’s hatred of the Games, but I have come to. 

A sad smile washes over my face as I await my interrogation. Avia Maria would be proud of the man I have become, and I think that is all that matters now. 

My mind flickers back to Avia Maria’s old crawlspace in the attic part of her penthouse suite. There was an old box made of thick paper. Or … well not paper per se … but it wasn’t wood. 

I distinctly remember reaching in and pulling out the contents of the box. I saw written, in faded black ink, on the side of the box, “Mom’s things.” 

I inferred, then, that this box belonged to Avia Maria’s mother. Or, perhaps, some other long distant mother in my family’s lineage was the original owner of the contents of this box. 

I first pulled out a large book. It was heavy and the pages were lined on the side in faux gold leaf. The cover was black pleather. It was cheap and had a distinctly not-Capitol look about it. 

I loved it. 

I noticed that a flaming bird, not a Mockingjay, was pressed into the pleather. I let my hand ghost over the cover for a moment before placing it at my side. I plunged by hands back into the box and pulled out a white veil made of simple lace designs and patterns. I set this down as well. I soon found several necklaces consisting of five sets of ten beads with another set of a few beads hanging off the end. At the very end of these necklaces, there was a “t” with a man seemingly nailed onto it. 

I soon found something that resembled a real necklace, and I inspected the end of it that was so like the others I had found. And yet, it was so different. 

I cradled the chain in my hands for a moment. I traced the legs of the man, and I ran my thumb over the simple golden chain. 

It was a cross. 

The Capitol is not above using these torture devices, but it rarely happens. 

I cannot help but wonder, knowing that they’ve likely found my necklaces, if a cross will be my fate. I try to shake the image of my own crucifixion from my mind and focus on the memories from my youth. 

I let my mind wander back to that upper room. For, then, I set down the cross necklace amongst the others and pulled out another small medal attached to a silver chain. I ran my finger over the flaming bird attached to the heavy metal chain. It was the same symbol that was pressed into the pleather. 

These were old things that seemed like they were almost of another world. 

These old things were not shiny or dazzling. They were simple, and that alone held my attention. For, even then, in the earliest years of my life, the world I lived in flashed and shimmered in illusions. 

As she grew to a more advanced age, Avia Maria had always complained about just how fake everything appeared. I never understood her, but my heart agreed all the same. 

I remember that my mind drifted back to Avia Maria’s stories that Mother was quick to dismiss as “just legends or stories with no meaning.” 

The story of the flaming bird was amongst the ones dismissed.

Avia Maria also used to whisper about _Christus_ and how someone had said when the waters rose and the great disasters of the world occurred many were “sure he was coming again.” 

It is only now, after all of these years reflecting, that I am beginning to understand that _Christus_ must have been the man on the cross. 

Avia Maria had told me about how the man, _Christus,_ broke bread amongst the sinners, but I never heard the end of her stories. Mother was always quick to remove me before the story ended. 

I remember, after I had unpacked the box, I carefully gathered the necklaces. 

I knew I couldn’t keep the book. It was too hard to hide. 

I diligently contemplated how to keep my new treasures, and I decided to wear the silver chained bird and the gold chained man hanging on the cross around my neck. 

The rest, I decided I could part with. 

Oh, how innocent I was then. 

After I inspected my new trove more closely, I began to put a name to at least one of these objects. I remember Avia Maria describing the fiery bird, a dove, to me. I assumed the necklace with the bird engulfed in flame must have been this image. 

I have never removed it from my neck. Though the symbol itself hangs deep in my shirt on a gold chain. 

I take off the chain and examine the little bird with my finger when I hear the creaking of the door to my interrogation room. I move to put the necklace back on when I lift my eyes to see the face of a friend. 

“Plutarch Heavensbee,” I whisper. “It’s good to see a friendly face.” 

“Yes, Cinna. It’s me. I … I’m glad you’re still here. You know they’ll kill you here, right? They’re saying they can’t make it public.” Plutarch reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “They found your stuff. They discussed the dishonor of … well … making it public. They know …”

“I know. I figured.” I smile sadly, and I look at our entwined hands. “You’ll take the team with you. They love her so much. She … she feels as safe with them as she can. If she can’t have me, she’ll need them. They’re good for her.” 

“I swear. I will find a way to bring her team to thirteen even though she won’t have you.” Plutarch squeezes my hand again. 

“Take care of my Spirit.” I whisper as I squeeze his hands. “And, protect her _Christus._ ” 

I know he doesn’t understand my message, but I give him the gold chain and the silver medal anyway. 

As Plutarch leaves, he resumes the cold face he wears outside of our brief and rebellious meetings. My family is not a founding family of the Capitol. I am a disgrace to the lowly family I come from. I know this. 

The interrogators enter my holding cell. 

“Why did you do it?” They ask. 

I say nothing, at first, until I receive a slap in the face. Then, I recall something my great grandmother used to say. I remember Avia Maria whispering this little phrase under her breath at times. 

“ _Veni, Sancti Spiritus._ ” 

The world goes dark with pain as I feel a bullet shoot through my left wrist. I fall from the chair as someone kicks it from under me. 

I stand and back away to the wall. I hold up my hands in surrender. 

“Why did you do it?” They ask again. 

I refuse to answer, and a bullet shoots through my right wrist. The pain of it causes me to fall forward onto my hands, and I can’t stop the scream of agony that courses through me. 

Then, they begin to beat me with a whip calling for me to give up, and they never stop asking me to tell them why I helped turn this poor and destitute girl into a symbol of rebellion. Still, I say nothing. 

I finally will myself to stand, and I look at them in their eyes. 

“We’ll ask you one more time, Cinna. Why the hell did you help that brat?” One of the interrogators yells as his spit flies into my face.

I can hardly form the words that have become my internal mantra. “ _Veni, Sancti Spiritus._ ” 

They shoot a bullet into my feet, and I collapse onto the floor. The scent of blood is strong. I lie there in my own blood. I can taste it in my mouth. 

“Where is your ‘holy spirit’ now, Cinna?” The interrogator with whip leers at me as he spits into my face. 

“She’s …” my voice cracks weakly. “Fighting. She … will … bring … us … justice … bring us …” 

I don’t finish the phrase. My heart clenches, and the world blackens and blurs. I feel my body tightening, and all my muscles clench without my ability to stop them. The air in my lungs cannot come in or out fast enough to satisfy my oxygen hungry organs. 

_Peace._ I think as I drift towards a warm light. _Let there be peace._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an author, I find it fun to reflect on where religion "goes" in dystopia. As a dystopian writer myself, I sort of wanted to mess around with Cinna and his flaming bird obsession. Naturally, or maybe not so naturally, I ended up settling on images of the Holy Spirit. That lead me to this weird rabbit hole and the creation of this fic.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Weird Easter Egg:  
> "Avia" is grandmother in Latin. Cinna uses it for both his grandmother and greatgrandmother. (I kinda figured because the Capitol is based on Rome that some of their terms of endearment would be Latin.)  
> "Maria" is the Latin form of "Mary"  
> "Caritas" means "Charity" in Latin  
> Title is Latin for “Holy Spirit and Fire.”

**Author's Note:**

> As an author, I find it fun to reflect on where religion "goes" in dystopia. As a dystopian writer myself, I sort of wanted to mess around with Cinna and his flaming bird obsession. Naturally, or maybe not so naturally, I ended up settling on images of the Holy Spirit. That lead me to this weird rabbit hole and the creation of this fic. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Weird Easter Egg:  
> "Avia" is grandmother in Latin. Cinna uses it for both his grandmother and greatgrandmother. (I kinda figured because the Capitol is based on Rome that some of their terms of endearment would be Latin.)  
> "Maria" is the Latin form of "Mary"  
> "Caritas" means "Charity" in Latin  
> Title is Latin for “Holy Spirit and Fire.”


End file.
